🤨 How did I get to be me?


Danny Gregory played the Peppermint Lounge alongside Ike and Tina Turner and Elvis Presley. He died in Kansas City.

Danny owned and operated Subway Restaurants and several race car teams. He was recently inducted into the Warsaw Speedway Hall of Fame

Danny was a machinist, mechanic, and jack of all trades. He was able to fix anything.

He worked his entire career in the mortgage lending business.

He served in the Navy for 29 years.

He was known for his radio show “Dangerous Dan Gregory and the Midnight Frolics.”

He served as a drug and alcohol abuse counselor and had a positive effect on many.

He worked for the Government Printing Office in Seattle for 30 years.

He worked at High Tech Packaging.

He was a prison guard for the state of Missouri.

He joined the IBEW (Electricians) Local No. 180.

He worked the waterfront for over thirty years as a longshoreman.

Danny is described by his wife and children as gentle, thoughtful, generous, slow to anger, and kind to animals.

His wife said, “I always used to tease Danny that if you look in the dictionary for the definition of "curmudgeon,” his face would be there.”

There are hundreds of obituaries for men named Danny Gregory.

One day, mine will be published out there too.

When I read about these lives, I think about the paths I have taken and forsaken.

I might have become a journalist, or a lawyer, or a Broadway director.

I might have followed up on my post-college plan to move to Truk, a small island in the South Pacific.

I might have stayed in advertising until I retired.

I might have become a freelance speech writer.

I might not have married Patti. Or Jenny.

I might never have moved to Phoenix.

I might never have started Sketchbook Skool.

I might never have allowed myself to learn to draw.

I’ve got one life.

It’s not over yet, and there are still many choices I can make about the remaining years I am on this earth as a Danny Gregory.

I can look after my body or indulge my appetites.

I can publish another book.

I can make more animated films. Or not.

I can meet new people or watch Netflix.

I can sign up for a workshop on glass blowing.

I can go on new adventures or hunker down.

I can dabble or delve deep.

I can take up golf.

My days are numbered, and eventually, they will be summarized in a paragraph or two.

So I ask my reflection as I brush my teeth, “What kind of Danny Gregory do I want to be?”

It's still not too late to decide.

Your pal,

Danny


P.S. If you ever want to write to me or send me snacks and you are confused by all the Danny Gregorys out there (dead and alive), rest assured that you can always reach this one by just replying to this email or sending a tasty package to the address down below.

Danny Gregory: I help you make art again

Each Friday, I send advice, ideas, stories and tips to 25K creative people like you. Author of 13 best-selling books on creativity. Founder of Sketchbook Skool w 50k+ students

Read more from Danny Gregory: I help you make art again

I'm writing this under an enormous redwood tree in Northern California, a thousand miles from home. I’m in a friend’s backyard, having just slept in the top bunk of a tiny cabin. I had almond milk in my coffee and cottage cheese in my pancakes. Being a guest in someone else's home means making a hundred small adjustments—from the density of the pillows to the taste of the water. It reminds me how much of a creature of habit I’ve become. This is my first proper vacation in five years. A couple...

Why am I writing this essay? Because it’s almost Friday, and I always send out an essay each Friday. Because I’m a writer, and writers write. Because (most of the time) I love doing this—arranging ideas, picking words. Because I want to see the finished piece. And feel that sense of satisfaction. Because I do this for you. But more, I do this for me. But does it matter why I do this? Absolutely. Because if I mistake my motivations and I’m fuzzy on my goals, I could end up looking for answers...

When I was 27, I almost learned to play the piano. I’d gone to a dinner party, and the host—a film editor, not a musician—sat down at an old upright and played something slow and emotional. It wasn’t flashy. He used both hands, sure, but he wasn’t showing off. It sounded like he was speaking with the keys. I remember thinking: I want to do that. The next morning, I looked up local music teachers in the Yellow Pages. Then I paused. It would take years to get good. I imagined scales, clunky...